I grew up in the fiftys, hard work was all I knew.
Picking cotton for a living was expected of you.
I wore dresses Mama made from old flour sacks,
Lived in a rundown old sharecroppers shack.

I felt the cold in the winter When the winds
Blew thru, the see thru cracks.
Picked cotton in the fall
And pulled those old heavy picksacks.

I took baths in the backyard
In water warmed by the hot sun.
In mamas'washtub when the washing
Was hung ouside,dried and done.

I went barefoot in the summer To save my
One pair of shoes I had to wear
And slept crowded in the beds
Too many kids had to share.

I covered my head at night
To keep the mosquitos away.
But they always found me and
I itched all the next day.

My education limited,too often unable to go.
The cotton had to be chopped when it began to grow.
I dreaded the fall when school was to begin.
Then cotton had to be picked and taken to gin.

It took our whole family to make enough to get by.
There was no welfare on which we could rely.
I hated to pick when cotton grew to tall.
On a wet dewy morning in early fall.

I got wet from my neck to my feet,and no way to dry
I was sure I would pick cotton til I died.
I often think back ,hope I never see another picksack
Or.use another outhouse sitting in yard out back.

Some call them the good old days but I disagree.
I would sure hate to go back to how it used to be.
Now that I am old I can plainly tell.
It was nothing but a cotton picking hell.